


Terribly Reckless and Incredibly Stupid

by MistressPandora



Series: Gods of War [7]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Like you would not believe, Multi, Poly Relationship M/M/F, Willie has a potty mouth, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:59:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25027330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: When Lord John Grey is arrested for a crime he didn't commit, Jamie and Willie must find a way to rescue him before he's executed.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser/Lord John Grey
Series: Gods of War [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653670
Comments: 67
Kudos: 77
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Outlander Bingo Challenge





	1. Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iihappydaysii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iihappydaysii/gifts).



> Thanks to Ash for requesting that I use my "Go through me" bingo square for Jamie protecting John!
> 
> This chapter fills my Bad Things Happen Bingo square: **Go Through Me**  
>  And my Outlander Bingo square: **Fergus Fraser**

**Tuesday Morning.**

The fact that he felt content, safe, and at peace should have been Jamie Fraser’s first indication that everything was about to go to shite. Fergus’s print shop was a flurry of activity, but orderly, tidy. Jamie’s oldest grandson Germain had gone marketing with Marsali and Ian’s wife Rachel. Claire was away holding “clinic,” or whatever her word for it was. His sister Jenny tended the front of the shop, her grandnieces and Lord John with her. Lord John was engaged in some rapt discussion with Félicité concerning the relative virtues of yellow ribbons over blue ones. The lass prattled on in that enthusiastic and disjointed way of children, John offering earnest contributions whenever she paused for breath. That left Jamie and Ian to labor at the press alongside Fergus, while William watched with studious interest, lending a hand whenever he was able.

It was almost everything Jamie could have wished for on a Tuesday afternoon, surrounded by his family, sweating through an honest day of hard work. The bell above the shop door chimed, barely registering in Jamie’s mind—along with the clomp of bootheels—as important.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Jenny said, her voice cool and steely. Jamie paused, his hand hovering over the typeset. “How can I—”

“You Colonel Grey?” said a rough voice with a muddled accent.

After a pause, Lord John answered with correct formality. “Your servant, sir. Though I am a Colonel no longer. You may address me as Lord John.”

Jamie turned toward the curtained doorway that led to the shop, motioning for the other three to remain silent. Something in the timbre of John’s voice was wrong. He snatched up his pistol from its place on a high shelf and tucked it into his belt, not bothering to disguise his steps as he pushed aside the drab curtain to the front of the shop.

Joan and Félicité clung to Jenny’s skirts behind the counter, watching as John squared off against five Continental soldiers, his hands casual and unthreatening at his sides. Through the window, Jamie saw at least half a dozen more soldiers, their attention on the storefront. Though none of the five had yet drawn weapons, they stood with the air of men thirsting for violence.

“I am James Fraser,” he said, coming to stand on Grey’s left side. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

It was a weathered captain who answered. “You should mind your business, _Mister_ Fraser,” he said. “Or we’ll arrest you too.” Jamie’s brows shot up, and John tensed at his side. “His Lordship is a guest in my house and is therefore under my protection. It is my business, ken.” Willie and Ian had come through the curtain as well, Jamie could see their spectral reflections in the window. Fergus would have stayed out of sight in case he was needed. He knew the drill from their time in Edinburgh.

“If I am under arrest, may I inquire as to the charge?” Grey asked.

The captain, who still hadn’t properly introduced himself, sneered. “Murder.”

The room erupted into a smattering of exclamations and expletives in at least four languages and died down to a tense rustle when Lord John raised his hand. “And whom am I meant to have murdered, Captain? And _when_ am I meant to have done so? As you can see, there are a great many who can attest to my whereabouts.”

"It ain't up for discussion," the captain said. He nodded to a pair of corporals, who stepped toward Grey, one brandishing a length of rope.

Jamie put himself between John and the soldiers, his hand casually resting on the grip of his pistol. "Ye'll no’ threaten him again," he said, voice icy. He began working the calculations in his head. He couldn’t shoot them all himself, but he'd add a hole to that captain's head just fine.

The captain drew his own pistol, holding it casually at his side. "Step aside, Mister Fraser."

Jamie was acutely aware of everyone before and behind him. Willie growled low in his throat and Ian steadied him with a whisper. The opposing forces in the print shop were weighted in Jamie and Lord John's favor. Hell, the two of them alone could likely take out most of the bastards.

"I willna step aside, _Captain_ ," Jamie said, straightening his shoulders and shielding John with his own body. "I'll ask ye once to leave this property and nay return."

The corporals closed in. The one with the rope was the greatest immediate threat. Jamie would have to bring him down first if he didn't want that rope around his neck. The thought gave him a pang of longing for Roger Mac. He was grateful that Brianna and the children were safe and sent up an automatic prayer to that effect. But Christ, he could use Roger Mac's level-headed ability to diffuse a conflict. Aye well. Brute force it was, then.

Jamie addressed the corporals directly now. "If ye want him, gentlemen, ye'll have to go through me." The room held its breath. "I've been waging war since before ye were a twinkle in yer father's eye. Do ye truly believe ye can best me?"

Willie made some noise in his throat again. _Steady, lad,_ he thought furiously behind him. Ian's calm voice came again. "Wait, Willie, aye?"

The corporals looked wary, but to their credit did not waver.

"Step aside this instant,” said the captain. “Or I'll give the order to fire the house.

Félicité and Joan gasped, the latter beginning to cry. Jenny's voice was calm and poised and hard as nails as she shushed them. She'd lived through this for well over a decade after Culloden, strangers threatening her family. She was no wilting damsel, his sister. She'd fight too, if it came to that.

A strong hand closed around Jamie's forearm and John spoke low at his side. "Jamie, it's alright."

Jamie spared a glance at him. John's face was a mask of grim determination, but Jamie detected the echo of his own fear reflected back to him in his eyes. Fear of a cage and the gallows. Fear for the family behind them. Fear that their arduous road to something akin to happiness would end like this, without warning or cause.

"Jamie," John's voice was heartbreakingly calm, resigned. "I'll go."

"Nay, John," he began, but John's tragic smile made him stop and collect himself.

"Yes," John said, his tone permitting no argument. "The children are frightened. We are hopelessly outnumbered. I'll go with them."

He was right, damn him. And Jamie knew he would do the same were their positions reversed. They were cut from the same cloth, he and John, always willing to dive headfirst into danger to protect the people they cared most about.

Jamie reluctantly removed his hand from his pistol, letting his arms fall loose to his sides, his shoulders slumping in surrender. The corporals closed the distance to John and tied the rope around his wrists in front of him. The fibers bit visibly into John's flesh, but he did not flinch.

"I'll think of something," Jamie said. A dozen other things tumbled about his mind but he gave words to none of them.

John nodded. "I trust that you will. I'm counting on you, Jamie Fraser." He looked back at the son that Jamie had sired and John had raised, and regret flashed across his eyes before he locked it down again. "Do take care, Willie."

"Papa," William began, sounding very much like a young lad full of fear and sadness and mayhem ready to be unleashed.

Ian had one hand braced against Willie's shoulder, the other soothing him with gentle strokes along William's arm. "Let him go, _a charaid,"_ Ian murmured. "Ye canna help him if ye're shot."

And then then the soldiers left, dragging Lord John Grey with them.

Jamie considered wearing his uniform to visit General Arnold, but decided against it. The last thing he needed was for Benedict Arnold to misconstrue his appearing in uniform as willingness to take back his commission. Instead, Jamie wore the best suit at his disposal, which needed a bit of mending, and Jenny made quick work of it for him.

William had voiced his opinion in strong favor of a direct assault on the jail, and Jamie rather agreed with the lad. It wasn’t as if Jamie had never stormed a military stronghold before. But that was a lifetime ago, on another continent, the whole of the Highlands his personal rabbit hole. Now though, he had far more to lose and it would be impossible to outrun the continental army with women and young children. Nay, he would need to try diplomacy first.

Ian had fetched back Claire and she charged into the rear of the printshop with her face pink and hair wild. Her eyes blazed with a mad concoction of anger, worry, and that alarming glimmer that said she was fully prepared to do something exceedingly rash. His heart swelled with a rush of pride at her ferocity and he kissed her forehead in reassurance.

She told Jamie everything she could remember about General Arnold, which wasn’t more than she already had. But the sound of her voice was a balm on his raw nerves

He settled his coat on his shoulders and Claire smoothed the sleeves over his arms, ending the touch with a squeeze of his hands. “Would it help if I went with you?” she asked.

“Nay, I dinna think so,” he answered, kissing the backs of both her hands. “I’ll bring him home in one piece.”

Claire nodded as Jamie turned to Willie. “Watch out for yer stepmother, aye? Dinna do anything foolish until I return.”

**Tuesday Afternoon.**

General Arnold’s aide de camp left Jamie to wait for four hours, likely hoping Fraser would give up and leave. But Benedict Arnold did not know James Fraser very well if he thought that a little rudeness would be sufficient to overcome his single-minded stubbornness. So Jamie affected an air of patient boredom, utterly unimpressed by his surroundings. He sat in the uncomfortable chair provided for him in the anteroom, rising periodically to pace the room slowly, perusing the unremarkable assortment of typical military bric a brac.

There were no windows in the cluttered room, but Jamie guessed from the shifting bustle of General Arnold’s headquarters staff that it was nearing supper time. Jamie stood with his hands clasped behind his back, studying what appeared to be a map of British supply lines when the aide de camp emerged from Arnold’s office. The captain was a young man, stocky of build and fair haired, and his green eyes went wide when he found that Fraser was still there.

The captain glanced over his shoulder into the office, gave a meaningful shrug, nodded crisply, and returned his attention to Jamie. “General Arnold will see you now, Mr. Fraser.”

Jamie gave him a skeptical arch of his eyebrow, but thanked him nonetheless. He stopped on the other side of the door and bowed respectfully to Arnold, who rose to greet him. “Good evening, General,” Jamie said. “Thank ye for agreeing to see me.” Not that Jamie left him much choice. The man would have had to flee through the window if he wanted to avoid speaking with him.

General Arnold returned to his straight-backed chair behind the desk. He did not offer Jamie a seat. “What can I do for you Mr. Fraser?”

“The better part of a company of Continentals arrested a man from my son’s print shop this morning, Sir. I’ve come to request his release into my custody.” Jamie stood with his back straight, shoulders relaxed, his tricorn tucked under one arm. He kept his face perfectly neutral, waiting patiently for the general’s answer.

“Arrested?” Arnold sat back in his chair and furrowed his brow at Jamie. “This morning?”

“Aye, Sir. Gentleman by the name of Grey.”

General Arnold’s eyes widened. “Oh, I see. The murderer.”

Anger flared up in Jamie’s chest, red-hot and deadly, but he tamped it down. “The charges are entirely unfounded, General. Will ye arrange his release?”

Arnold winced, almost apologetically. “Now, you see, I can’t do that, Mr. Fraser. The charge is very serious.” He drummed his fingers on the cherrywood desk. “The victim was one of my men. I would lose control of my troops if I let such a crime go unpunished.”

“Ye have the wrong man, Sir,” Fraser replied, letting an edge creep into his voice. “Grey has been in the company of myself or a member of my family almost constantly for the past week.”

“Are you suggesting a member of your family is an accomplice?”

Jamie could have leapt across the desk and strangled Benedict Arnold then and there. His deathgrip on his wits was the only thing that prevented it. “No. Sir.”

Arnold folded his hands on the desk in front of him, looking up at Jamie with a damned self-righteous and haughty expression on his face for someone who would go down in history alongside Judas. “Anything more, Mr. Fraser?” The bastard was still trying to brush him off. _Not bloody likely_. Jamie ground his teeth, forcing his words between them. “When is his trial? I wish to testify on Colonel Grey’s behalf.”

“Oh,” the general said, blinking up at Fraser. “There isn’t one.”

The bottom dropped out of Jamie’s stomach and his heart nearly stopped. “Sir?” _Mary and Bride, please don’t let me be too late._

Arnold waved a dismissive hand. “Martial law, you know. His execution is scheduled for this Thursday, at dawn. Hanging.”

Blazing red fury crossed Jamie’s vision. To the devil with appearances and deference. This soon-to-be traitor deserved neither. “Sir, ye canna execute a man wi’out trial! Ye’d give a member of the militia the benefit of a tribunal, would you no’? But ye’ll hang a private citizen, an _innocent man_ without so much as an inquiry?” Jamie would be doing the world a favor to kill this man. It would be such a simple thing, as enraged as he was. He let his knees go flexible, ready to pounce. He knew exactly what it would feel like when the life went out of Arnold under Jamie’s hands.

Shoving back from the desk with a screech of chair legs on the wooden floor, General Arnold shot to his feet, hands braced on the desk before him. “Mr. Fraser,” he said, voice hard. “I do not appreciate having my integrity called into question in my own office. I have reviewed the evidence personally and both the charge and the summary sentence will stand as stated. And there is nothing you could possibly offer me that would cause me to reconsider. Now, unless you wish to hang alongside him, you will leave the premises. Good day, Mr. Fraser.”

Jamie growled low in his throat and glared down at Arnold. His hands balled into fists until his fingernails bit into his palms. Without another word to Benedict fucking Arnold, Fraser spun on his heel and stormed out of the office.

**Tuesday Evening.**

It was a simple matter to find the jail where Grey was being kept. It was far more challenging to threaten and bribe his way inside to speak with him, but Fraser managed. John’s hands were still bound with rope. He sat on the bare frame of the rickety cot, the stained bedroll discarded on the floor in a careless heap. He leaned back against the wall, eyes closed in an expression of deep contemplation. Grey shifted at the sound of Jamie’s footsteps but didn’t open his eyes.

“John,” Jamie said. “Are ye hurt?” His suit was rumpled and Jamie could count at least one missing button, his neckcloth loose and disheveled. In the low light of the single lantern his wrists were red and abraded under their bonds.

Grey opened his eyes and sat up straight, the cot groaning beneath him. “Jamie. Yes, I’m alright.” He raised an eyebrow at him. “Please tell me you’ve sorted this out and you’re getting me out of here.”

Jamie eyed the guards behind him, then turned back to John. “Ah, no. Not exactly. General Arnold wasna so inclined to hear my testimony.”

“I’m to be hanged in two days. Did he tell you that?” John rose and came to the cell door. The shadows of the bars cut across his handsome face.

“Aye, he did.” Jamie swallowed around the lump of worry in his throat. It wouldn’t do for John to see it. He knew all too well the icy dread and despair that could settle into a man’s bones when he was certain of such a fate, and he didn’t wish that on John. He spoke quietly. “Did they tell you anything useful? General Arnold wouldn’t even give me the name of the man ye’re meant to have killed.”

John scratched at his forehead with a thumbnail, the motion awkward with his hands tied together. “Now, that I do have,” he whispered. “A sergeant Mosley, whoever in the hell he was. All I gathered is that he was one of Arnold’s men.”

“Aye, but all that tells us is that he was in or around Philadelphia.” Jamie drummed the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. There was something else going on. It could be as simple as General Arnold had a dead soldier on his hands, and needed an English scapegoat. Or perhaps morale was flagging among the Continentals and Arnold thought he could reinvigorate them with the summary and very public execution of a high-ranking officer, formerly of His Majesty’s army, charged with the dishonorable murder of a young Continental. But Jamie also knew that Occam’s Razor rarely held up in the company of one John Grey. “Did ye hear anything else?”

With a long sigh, John shook his head, his eyes heartbreakingly despondent. “No. I’ve got to say, Fraser, if this is what the justice system of this brave new world will look like...I’m not impressed thus far.”

Jamie chuckled but there was no joy in it. “Nay, this feels personal.”

John nodded. “I agree,” he whispered back. “But who is it meant to hurt? Me or you? Claire? My brother?”

“I dinna ken. I just have to hope I can make someone show their hand.”

They stood in silence for a long moment and John rested his bound hands between the bars of the cell door. “I would very much like to _not_ be hanged, Jamie.”

John’s eyes were full of fear, tragic and evil, an emotion he rarely showed anyone. With Jamie’s body shielding them from view of the guards, he took John’s hands in both of his and squeezed. John’s fingers were cold, the flesh around the ropes hot and inflamed, and if Jamie thought he could have gotten away with kissing John through the bars, he would have done it. “I willna let ye be hanged. Dinna fash, _mo leannan_.”

John managed a brave smile as he looked up at Jamie with that most remarkable combination of perfect love and unshakeable trust, and Jamie despised the sadness that tainted it. “Are you going to do something terribly reckless and incredibly stupid?” John asked.

Jamie gave him a fierce grin. “Aye, probably. It’s served me well enough so far”

Grey’s smile turned fond. “This is true.” A tragic shadow fell across his expression again. “Still, if it doesn’t… if it _is_ hopeless and you can’t—”

“Stop,” Jamie hissed. If John said one more word, Jamie would weep. “It isna hopeless.” After a brief glance over his shoulder at the guards again, Jamie switched to hushed, hasty Latin, which he hoped the guards couldn’t understand. “If I must burn this entire city to the ground to see you safe, I will do it. As well as you can, stay watered and rested. You may need your strength.”

John took a deep breath and let it out, nodding.

“I will be back for you,” Jamie finished in Latin, and with one last, tight squeeze of John’s hands, turned and left the jail.

When Jamie returned to the print shop, the moon high in the night sky, the storefront was crowded with his family, save for the children and Rachel. Willie leaned heavily on the counter, Ian close by his side, and he straightened to his own considerable height, searching the doorway behind Jamie with hopeful eyes. Jamie shook his head, and the room deflated, seemed to crumble under the weight of that simple, negative gesture.

“He’s to be hanged in two days,” Jamie said, as quietly as he could and it still be audible. The words physically pained him to speak aloud, and Jenny let go of Claire’s arm to cross herself.

All the color went out of Willie’s face as he sank onto a stool behind the counter, holding his head in his hands. “Shit,” he said into his palms. “Damn it to fucking hell.” Ian laid a hand on Willie’s back but said nothing.

“What do we do now?” Claire asked, ever the fierce pragmatist.

Jamie removed his hat and swatted it against his leg absently. He sighed. “General Arnold wants to hang a man for murder. We’ll make sure he has the right man and force his hand.”

Willie peered over his fingers at him. “And if we can’t do that by tomorrow?” 

“Then I will remove John from the jail tomorrow night and we’ll flee the city.”


	2. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating and tag change. I realized two things. One, that Willie's potty mouth is pretty freaking mature. And two, there's always room for a little smut (not this chapter).

**Wednesday Morning.**

No one slept well, of course. Coffee and tea were both still impossible to come by, and Mother Claire insisted that the men eat apples with breakfast. “They’ll help you stay alert,” she explained, arching a graceful eyebrow to show that she was serious, setting a basket of the fruit on the table.

Willie was in no position to argue. His body ached from the night of tense worry, tossing and turning. He had given up at last and flopped onto his back, running through every profanity he could think of in every language he knew. He even tried out some of the Gaelic curses that Ian had taught him, creative and amusing. He breathed these quietly into the darkness, letting his tongue grow accustomed to the strange syllables and woefully unpredictable pronunciation.

The swearing had helped Willie to at least relax and lie still until just before dawn, and their hasty breakfast of apples and eggs went a long way to restore some sense of humanity, if not wholeness. He wouldn’t feel whole again until Papa was out of danger.

Jamie rose from the table and handed a pistol each to Auntie Jenny and Mother Claire. “Keep these close to hand, aye?” Both women nodded, tucking the weapons into the pockets of their skirts. “Marsali, have the bairns ready to leave quickly.” Father wrapped his big hands around Mother Claire’s upper arms. “If it goes poorly, I’ll send the lads back to take ye to the Ridge. John and I will meet ye there.”

“If you think I’m going to run away while the two of you could be mortally wounded, Jamie Fraser, you are sorely mistaken.” Claire narrowed her eyes at Jamie, her lips pressed into a firm line.

“Aye, I ken that, _mo neighan donn_ ,” Jamie said, kissing her forehead. “I dinna think it will come to that.” He released her arms then and turned to Willie. “I think it’s still best if ye and I are no’ seen together. Take Ian wi’ ye, see what ye can learn about this sergeant Mosely. Go canny. Fergus, _mon fils_ , ye’re wi’ me.”

Willie and Ian came upon a public house teeming with uniformed Continentals and went inside, choosing a table that would afford them as much opportunity for eavesdropping as could be found in the place. They stayed alert for familiar faces, listened for useful gossip. Eventually they got up and wandered to a newly vacated table across the taproom, listening again.

They were poised to get up, to try a more direct approach, when Willie heard the name _Mosley_. He froze, looked across the table at Ian, who gave him a tight nod. He’d heard it too.

“...throat cut, clean through,” the soldier said. “I heard tell it was a stinking redcoat as what done him in. Found Mosley's body behind a church near the outskirts of town."

“Fucking English,” his mate replied. “What we ought to do is round every last Englishman and loyalist and shoot ‘em all in the street like the dogs they are.”

Willie scowled into his mug of beer. Had they forgotten that just a few years ago, _they_ were English?

"I know the sergeant at the jail where they have the lobsterback bastard locked up. Says General Arnold's gonna hang him tomorrow morning. Cutter says as how the bloke is some high ranking officer. A colonel. Bit of a dandy too, to hear Cutter talk."

"Why that fucking son of a—" Willie began under his breath.

Ian cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes at him. "We canna help him if we're arrested for starting a brawl, ken," he hissed.

Willie growled low on his throat, his knuckles going white as he gripped the edge of the table. "We won't get anything else useful here. Come on," he hissed, rising.

**Wednesday Afternoon.**

Shortly after noon, Willie and Ian hit paydirt. They had been canvassing the city streets since leaving the public house when Willie realized they were about to stroll headlong into Captain Richardson. _Colonel_ Richardson, he corrected himself inwardly. _Arse_. Willie grabbed Ian by the arm and yanked him into a narrow alley, holding up a finger to his lips and cutting his eyes back to the street.

“No, Greenlee, this won’t come back round to you,” Richardson said. “The evidence I presented Arnold was rock solid. Besides, he doesn’t really care _who_ killed Mosley, just so long as someone takes the blame for it.”

_Fucking Richardson_. Willie gestured to his eyes with two fingers and nodded from Ian to the mouth of the alley, eyebrows raised in question. “Who is he talking to?” Willie whispered.

Ian strode to the mouth of the alley and leaned his shoulder casually against one wall, crossing his arms. He scanned the street with bored eyes.

Willie came up behind him and faced the wall, ducking his head low so as not to be recognized if Richardson came by.

“...He got in my way once and I won’t have him doing it again,” Richardson said. “I know he married the Fraser woman just to keep her from me, the bastard. And I knew then he was up to something but I couldn’t prove it. Well, he won’t make a fool of me again.”

“Y-yes, Sir.”

“Greenlee?” Willie hissed.

Ian made a Scottish noise in the affirmative, stroking one finger down his nose to cover his mouth. “I ken him now,” he whispered back.

“Just lie low for a few days. Grey will be dead this time tomorrow anyway. Chin up, man, it’s almost finished.” There was a sound like a clap on a suited shoulder and Ian turned his back on the street, hiding his face as Richardson strode by.

Reason left William, replaced by a burning desire to rip that bastard apart with his bare hands. He made to follow Richardson, but Ian stopped him with a firm hand on his chest. “Nay, Willie. Dinna do anything foolish.”

Willie let out an irritated growl. “I wish I’d killed that son of a bitch when I had the chance.”

“He’s a colonel," Ian argued quietly. "Do ye want to bring the entire Continental Army down on us?"

"Fuck," Willie swore. "You're bloody right, of course. You'll recognize that Greenlee if you see him again?"

Ian nodded. "Aye, I will. Come on, we'll find Uncle Jamie. He'll ken what to do."

Jamie listened, his face stony and cold, as Willie and Ian recounted what they'd discovered, about Greenlee and Richardson. At last, he drew his index finger down the bridge of his straight nose and pursed his lips. The silence stretched between them and as Willie glanced out the window at the falling dusk, his impatience began to get the better of him. His fingers twitched, wishing for a pistol or a sword or to punch someone. "Well?" he demanded, unable to contain it any longer. "I know that look, Father. I know you're working out a plan. What the bloody hell is it?"

"Ian, run and ask yer mam for the parcel we brought back from Scotland, aye?" Jamie said, voice infuriatingly calm. "The one for Willie. She'll ken what I mean."

Ian nodded and hurried out, the sound of his boots receding into the flat behind the print shop.

Jamie drummed the fingers of his right hand against his leg, his features stony and neutral.

"How the devil are you so calm?" Willie demanded. "Have you forgotten that Papa will hang in the morning?"

"Tell me, Willie," Jamie said, voice even. "Have ye ever solved a problem by panicking or losing yer heed?"

Willie answered through gritted teeth, "No."

“Neither have I,” Jamie replied. “We are going to get John out of that cell. Together. And people will see us together and ken who ye are to me. It’s best if they dinna also ken ye as English.” He disappeared into the back of the shop, returning a moment later with his folded kilt clutched to his chest with one arm.

“What the f—” Willie began, but he was cut off by Ian’s return with a bundle wrapped in canvas. At Jamie’s nod, Ian handed it to Willie.

“Thank ye, Ian,” Jamie said. “Go scouting, aye? See if ye can find Greenlee.”

With a nod, and a muttered, “Yes, Uncle,” Ian left the print shop.

Willie peeled back the edge of the canvas to reveal a huge bolt of muted and brown green tartan. “Is this what I think it is?"

Jamie picked up the few stools and set them behind the print shop counter, clearing as much floor as he could. “Aye, that’s yer kilt. It’s a bit worn ‘round the edges. It’s still illegal in Scotland to have them. That belonged to a kinsman. It's Mackenzie, ken. There's more of them left than there are Frasers. But yer grandmother would have been proud to see ye wear it."

Willie stroked his fingers down the wool fabric, following the darkest line of green as it wove through the garment, up and over and diving under the brown until it was obscured completely, only to reappear again an inch later. Bringing the kilt to his nose, Willie inhaled, took in the scent of lanolin and cedar. It smelled like warmth and shelter and holding it gave him an odd sense of belonging and connectedness he'd never felt before. He'd always known love and family, of course, but this was _heritage_. Something else entirely.

"Will ye wear it, my son?" Jamie asked, voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid of Willie's answer.

Jamie watched him, waiting. Willie had been so angry and hurt when he'd discovered his true parentage. He had spent weeks in a mindless rage. Hating Jamie for siring him. Hating Papa for lying to him. Hating himself for being a bastard, for being an unwitting imposter to a title he'd thought he cared about. The kilt, the tartan that Willie held was acceptance, an unconditional welcome into a family for no reason beyond the blood flowing through his veins.

"Yes," Willie answered. He looked up to see his father's face alight with a warm smile. "Will you show me how?"

"Aye." Jamie set his own bundle down on the counter, which Willie saw now included belts and two sporrans. Setting these aside, Jamie unfolded his kilt, letting it puddle on the far side of the floor, spreading one end wide. It was huge, at least five feet wide and damn near 30 feet long, a carefully ordered chaos of green and red, thin white lines cutting through the pattern at intervals. He spread it out as far as it could go on the floor and still have space to kneel in front of the narrow edge. "Ye must leave some flat, about as wide as you are." Jamie illustrated by bracketing his own hips with his hands and then measuring that out against the tartan.

Jamie drew his finger down the length of a green stripe. "The pattern is called the sett. Ye fold in yer pleats the width of the sett, aye? So the sett appears unbroken from behind." He pinched the tartan at regular intervals and dragged it toward him, smoothing out each fold as he went.

“Do ye mind, when ye were but a lad, before I left Helwater? Ye said ye wanted to be a stinking Papist,” Jamie asked without looking up.

“Of course,” Willie answered. When he’d first seen Jamie Fraser—Mac, as Willie had known him as a boy—as a man and realized their relationship, his father had reminded him of that day. Mac had told him his secret baptismal name was James.

His father nodded and began praying in Latin, asking St. Michael to guide his hand in battle. It was a warrior’s prayer and he uttered it in cadence with his pleating. He stopped folding when he had another flat panel left the same width as the first. The words were beautiful, perfectly accented. If Willie hadn’t been watching him pleat a kilt he might not have known he was Scottish.

Jamie sat back on his heels and nodded toward the pile of accoutrements remaining on the counter. “Hand me that belt, if ye please. The plain one, not the sword belt.”

Willie found the belt in question, the leather soft from wear but sturdy and well-made. Jamie slid it under the kilt carefully and laid down in the center of the pleats, one long edge of the tartan under his knees. Wrapping himself up in it, he laid the right side of the flat panel over his legs, then the left, then fastened the belt high on his waist. When he stood, it fell to his ankles like a skirt in the front. These ends he lifted and tucked behind him.

Jamie held up a finger. “Ye canna wear a kilt with breeks, lad,” he said, reaching under the front of his kilt to his flies, he pulled his breeches down and off. “Restricts yer movement. Alright, yer turn.”

Willie did as his father had shown him, and when he began pleating, Jamie led him through the prayer in Latin, letting Willie repeat it back. Father helped him to position himself correctly atop the kilt, wrap himself up evenly, tuck the plaid in securely, pointing out the names for things as they went. Feeling rather silly, Willie reached up under the kilt, unfastened his flies, and dropped his breeches. It was an oddly free and exposed sensation, though not entirely unpleasant. “I feel rather naked,” Willie said.

“Oh, aye, this will help,” Jamie said, handing Willie a sporran. It was black leather, well made with beautiful, even stitching. “Yer kilt pin is inside it.”

He opened the flap, and pulled out a staghorn pin carved into the shape of a sword with a stag’s head over the cross-hilt, the whole thing about the length of his palm. The phrase _Je suis prest_ was carved down the length of the sword. Willie traced the stag’s antlers with his finger, skimmed over the lettering. “I am ready?”

Jamie nodded. “The Fraser motto. I hope ye dinna mind it.”

Willie smiled, feeling that sense of pride and connectedness again, warm in his chest. “No, Father. I don’t mind it at all.”

**Wednesday Evening.**

Claire, not really one for tears, had nearly wept when she’d seen Willie and Jamie, plaids swept over their shoulders, their swords at their sides. She’d taken Willie’s face in both her graceful hands and said, “Whether you had planned this or not, you were born for it. And it suits you.” Jamie she had kissed with a passion that promised more, her lips soft and warm against his mouth. “Bring him home safe. And yourselves as well.”

They drew attention as they walked methodically through Philadelphia, up and down streets toward where the Continental Army was billeted, searching for Ian. Jamie and Willie wore matching, impassive glares that bordered on scowls. The soldiers and militia they passed eyed them suspiciously. The civilians gave them a wide berth, murmuring to their companions. Full highland regalia was not commonly in fashion in the streets of Philadelphia. At least no one mistook them for British loyalists. And if they did, no one challenged them.

Ian was leaning against a building near the mouth of an alley, posture casual, one foot propped up against the bricks. A peek through the nearest window identified the establishment as a brothel.

“He’s in there,” Ian said, nodding at the door.

Willie took an impulsive step toward the door and Jamie stopped him with one powerful hand on his shoulder. “How long?” he asked.

Ian glanced up at the sky. “No’ much more than an hour. He didna pay for the night, I asked the madame.”

“We’ll wait then,” Jamie said and released Willie’s shoulder when he nodded. It would be more expedient to barge in, perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. Causing a ruckus in a brothel frequented by Continentals was sure to attract the wrong kind of attention.

So they loitered, spoke of inconsequential things. Ian taught Willie more curses in Gaelic, Jamie supplying his own favorites that Ian hadn’t considered.

They didn’t have to wait long before Ian straightened up. “That’s him.”

“Let’s go have a word wi’ him, aye?” Jamie said. Captain Greenlee was of a height with Ian and walked with the deliberate gait of the moderately intoxicated. It took only a few of his long strides for Jamie to catch up with Greenlee and match his pace. Slipping his hand around Greenlee’s elbow and steering him to the side of the street, Jamie said, “I’d like to speak with ye, Captain. If ye’ll humor one of Washington’s generals.”

Greenlee stopped and stared at Jamie, eyes going wide, startled, as he took in Jamie’s imposing figure. “General?” He looked back at Willie, eyes going wider still. “But you’re out of uniform. I thought Washington insisted on his generals being always in uniform.”

“Weel, that’s as maybe,” Jamie replied. “I’m retired. If ye’ll no’ come for my own sake, Greenlee, I suggest ye come for his.” He cast his eyes over Greenlee’s shoulder to Willie, who’d come up behind the captain and pressed his small dagger into the side of the captain’s belly.

“You want to live through the night, don’t you?” Willie hissed.

Greenlee stank of liquor and piss, the latter probably related to the knife jabbing into his side and two very large men threatening him openly in the street. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Alright. Alright, I’ll come with you.”

Jamie and Willie dragged Greenlee deep into the alley behind the brothel, the man hissing and swearing the entire way. Willie had the man’s arm awkwardly behind his back and Jamie’s fingers dug hard into his bicep. They reached the back of the alley and Willie and Ian took up position behind Jamie as he shoved Greenlee hard against the wall, his powerful forearm a firm bar across the man’s throat.

Greenlee sputtered. “Look, if it’s money you want—”

With a growl, Jamie increased the pressure on Greenlee’s throat, choking off his sentence. “What’s yer connection to Richardson?” he asked without preamble.

Greenlee sputtered and clawed at Jamie’s arm, unable to speak. Jamie relaxed his hold just enough to let the man draw breath. His eyes darted around with that exaggerated choppiness of intoxication. “The colonel recruits defectors. I work for him. Please, I don’t know what you want. He doesn’t tell me anything except what he wants me to do.”

“And he ordered ye to kill Mosley?” Jamie asked. Richardson had threatened Claire twice. Once as a double agent, posing as an English captain intent on arresting her. The second was retaliatory when John had botched the first attempt. Jamie had no doubt that the man was capable of orchestrating a murder. “Well,” Greenlee’s eyes cut to the side before settling back on Fraser. “Not precisely, no.”

Jamie shoved against him with his forearm again and Greenlee sputtered, gagging. “Ye’ll have to do better than that, aye?” Jamie kept his voice even but no less threatening for it.

“It wasn’t—” he gasped for breath and Jamie let up again. “The sergeant wasn’t the mark. It was that Englishman.”

Willie came up beside Jamie with a furious snarl. “ _What_ Englishman? Why?”

“Grey,” Greenlee choked out. With considerable effort, Jamie managed not to snap the bastard's neck. If they didn’t need the information, though...

Willie pulled his fist back and punched him hard in the stomach. Jamie yanked his arm away and let Greenlee crumple. The man clutched his middle and coughed, gasping in empty breaths. “ _Shit_ ,” he groaned, eyes watering. He staggered and retched, groaning.

Jamie indulged in a little thrill of pride at the effect of his son’s blow. “Ye were supposed to set up Grey to take the blame?” It would seem that Richardson was proving himself to be a rather vindictive man.

Greenlee shook his head and retched again. “Not at first. I was supposed to kill him outright.” He glared up at Jamie and Willie. “But you two idiots were always with him and I didn’t think I could take all three of you.”

“My God, Father, he _does_ have a brain,” Willie said. “You’re Goddamned right, you couldn’t.”

Jamie sliced his hand through the air, silencing Willie with the gesture. They still needed information and leverage if they were going to get John out of jail without a very large amount of gunpowder. “Ye were meant to kill Grey. Then how did ye come to murder Mosley?”

Greenlee apparently found some last bastion of courage or stupidity and drew himself up to his full height, still shorter than Jamie and Willie. He sneered up at them. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Willie pressed the tip of his dagger into Greenlee’s throat until he hissed and a few droplets of blood appeared under the sharp tip of the blade. “As a matter of fact, you reeking pile of putrid pricks, we would. And you’re going to explain everything or I’ll cut your fucking throat in this festering alley and no one will find your bloody corpse.”

The acrid stench of frightened sweat filled the alley and Greenlee turned pleading eyes to Jamie, who returned the stare with a stony scowl and an expectant eyebrow.

“It was convenient,” Greenlee said. “Mosley had gotten too curious about Richardson’s intelligence ring. The bastard couldn’t keep his mouth shut. And he happened to be in the wrong place at the right time and…” He drew a line across his own throat with his index finger, yanking his hand away when he touched Willie’s blade.

“Arnold said there was evidence,” Jamie said. “As we both ken it as fact that Grey did not kill Mosley, who fabricated it? Ye or Richardson?”

Greenlee squirmed, wincing and going still again under Willie’s dagger. “Richardson of course. You think he lets me anywhere near the general?”

Willie shrugged, the muted McKenzie brown and green plaid over his shoulder accentuating the motion. “Well, you are a shit spy. Did no one tell you to avoid liquor if it loosens your tongue? Idiot.”

Richardson had ordered John’s murder and then subsequently framed him for a separate murder, likely himself the one recommending the summary execution. “But why?” Jamie demanded. “Why do all of this? Grey is no’ an English soldier naymore.”

“Well obviously it’s personal, isn’t it?” Greenlee said, voice dripping with disdain and irony. “Grey keeps putting his nose in the middle of Richardson’s affairs. He up and married that Fraser woman—your wife, I understand, however that happened—to keep her from him. And then the three of you robbed him blind after a single conversation with this bloke.” He nodded at Willie. “I don’t know what Richardson is planning next but he clearly doesn’t want Grey mucking it up again.”

Jamie drummed the stiff finger of his right hand against his leg, considering. They could get Grey out of jail and flee the city, which Jamie was pretty certain he could do without actually killing anyone. But then Richardson would always be looming over them, behind them. He was much too old and his family was much too precious for a life on the run. And Richardson was a well-placed colonel. Killing him outright could be even more disastrous, bringing a sizable portion of the continental army down upon them. No, they’d have to go canny.

A feral grin pulled at Jamie’s mouth as the plan came together in his mind. “I do hope ye have a legible hand, Capt Greenlee. Because ye have a lot of writing to do.”


	3. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills my Bad Things Happen Bingo square: **Rope Burns**

**Thursday Morning.**

The pocket watch in Grey’s waistcoat made its silvery little ding to toll the passing of another hour. He knew that it would say three o’clock because the last time it had dinged, it had been two. Grey fished it out, the movement awkward and painful, hissing as the ropes dug into his horrifically abraded wrists. As predicted, the little watch hands ticked merrily away, rounding three in the morning as if the world weren’t about to end. Grey stared down at it, the metal warming in his hands. His thoughts drifted to his father, who’d been killed the day after he’d given John the watch as a birthday gift. If there was something beyond this life, would he see his father there? Would he be proud of the man he’d become? Or ashamed? Would they even know each other at all?

Hal came to mind next, and his nieces and nephews, his sister-in-law Minnie. As infuriating as John’s brother could be with such minimal effort, he would have liked the chance to say goodbye to his family. Surely, Jamie would find a way to tell Hal what had happened…

 _Jamie._ At least Grey had lived long enough to see the change in him, to see his love for the man reciprocated. And Claire… that had been quite the shock indeed. It had taken them some time to navigate their complex relationship, but they’d managed. And it was a comfort that Willie would have them, the entire Fraser clan to support him, love him. They’d accepted Grey and Willie so easily, with such open affection. For all that separated and divided them, for all the messiness and unfathomable complications along the way, it was a found family that Grey was certainly loath to part with.

Three more hours, perhaps four. Grey sighed and slid the pocket watch back into his waistcoat. He let his head fall back against the dingy wall behind him, the bare cot hard and miserable under his buttocks. He closed his eyes for the sake of not staring at his cell any longer, knowing he wouldn’t sleep. He’d hardly slept since his incarceration, though he’d tried. He would only manage a few minutes at a time before something would awaken him, and as a result he was bone weary, his hands shaky. It would be a miracle if he could walk to the noose under his own power at this rate. Of all the crimes Grey had thought he might be hanged for, a murder he didn’t commit had never entered his mind as a possibility. Between the exhaustion and the surreal sense of detachment, Grey seemed to float outside of himself, as if we were a spectator watching a drama about to end. 

A hot tear slid down his cheek. Oh, how he didn’t want it to end.

A meaty thud and the sounds of struggle from the corridor drew Grey’s attention, his eyes snapping open, mind suddenly alert. More scuffling, the sounds of a quiet altercation. Muffled, hushed voices. Grey rose and crossed to the cell door, straining to see down the corridor, desperate to know what was happening. His heart pounded in his ears. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but this had the mark of Jamie Fraser about it. Grey took a steadying breath and let it out slowly, readying himself to dive headfirst into something terribly reckless and incredibly stupid.

Boots on the stairs, hasty but calm. Someone taking long strides, approaching the bend in the corridor. Grey caught the flash of plaid, the pleats of a kilt around the corner, and John sighed in relief. It _was_ Jamie. His heart lurched, his perception snapping back to the tangible here-and-now. Jamie was here. Everything would be alright now.

Except, no, that couldn’t be Jamie, the tartan was the wrong color. Young Ian, perhaps?

More rustling, the muted sound of some incoherent argument, perhaps a man protesting from behind a gag or with a hand over his mouth? _Sweet Jesus, what the bloody hell are they doing?_

The man in the kilt came around the corner and into the amber pool of lantern light and the breath caught in Grey’s throat. For an instant, he was a boy of sixteen again, catching his first sight of the infamous Red Jamie in Carryarick. Tall and broad-shouldered as his Viking ancestors, a bit of soot smudged on a well-sculpted face. Bare knees, dark from kneeling in the dirt, visible between the top of his boots and the bottom of his kilt.

But rather than a flash of fiery red curls, Grey stared at William’s raven hair. William’s Viking frame. _William’s kilt._

“Papa, thank Christ you’re alright.” His son flashed him a fierce grin, the spitting image of Jamie, and rushed to the cell door. “Fancy a rescue?”

Grey met Willie’s broad grin with one of his own. “As a matter of fact, I would. Thank you.”

Willie produced a ring of keys and began trying them in the lock one after the other. The sound of shuffling feet came closer and Jamie appeared around the corner behind Willie, in his own bright kilt and shoving a Continental officer in front of him. The man was gagged and bound in a rather impressive length of rope binding his arms tightly to his torso, stumbling along.

“Cutting it a bit close, wouldn’t you say, Fraser?” John arched an eyebrow at Jamie, but there was no concealing the wide smile that pinched his cheeks.

“Aha!” Willie declared, triumphantly swinging the cell door open.

“Aye, weel, I had t’ find ye a suitable replacement, did I no’?” Jamie replied, shoving the officer past Grey and into the cell. He shoved the man to sit on the bare cot and angled a finger at the man’s nose. “Stay put, aye?” The man nodded hastily. 

Jamie turned his back on him, took Grey’s face in both of his big hands, and kissed him. It was rather chaste, all things considered, and not _that_ scandalous in the grand scheme of things. But by God, it felt damned good to be kissing Jamie Fraser again. The bound officer made a rude squawk of astonishment, muffled by the gag. 

“Are ye alright, _mo leannan_?” Jamie asked.

John nodded. “I am now.” 

Willie cleared his throat. “Father, if you and Papa are quite finished giving the nice, doomed man an apoplexy, we should be going now.”

Jamie stooped to look closely at Grey’s wrists, still bound together. He swore in French and shook his head. “I canna cut ye loose wi’out hurting ye more. Will ye bide till we get to Claire?”

“I’ll manage.” John held Jamie’s hand tight between both of his own, not wanting to let him go. 

Digging into his sporran with his left hand, Jamie produced an iron nail, which he handed to Willie. “Here. Tack his confession up there, on that wall.” Their son unfolded a piece of signed parchment, spread it flat against the wall outside of the cell, and jabbed the nail through the top of it into the wood.

“Confession?” Grey asked.

“Aye,” Jamie answered. “It was personal. Richardson set up the whole thing.” He flashed a mischievous grin at John. “Dinna fash. We’ll ge’ him this time.”

They followed Willie out of the jail, past a trail of unconscious soldiers. At least, Grey hoped they were unconscious, though he was so relieved to be out of that cell and _not_ on his way to the gallows that he didn’t dwell on it much. Jamie’s hand was warm and reassuring in his, enough so that for a time he forgot about how badly his wrists hurt.

They met Ian standing watch at a narrow back door. He and Jamie exchanged nods and Ian fell into step behind Grey, guarding the rear of their little formation. The streets of Philadelphia were blessedly deserted this time of morning, but they still kept to the shadows to conceal Grey’s state. Even disheveled and bleeding, wrists bound, he was still the least conspicuous of the group. Two enormous Highlanders in great kilts followed by a Mohawk with a Scottish accent were far more interesting than a roughed-up Englishman would ever be. His grip on Jamie was the only thing keeping each groggy stumble from ending in disaster.

Rather than the print shop, Willie led them to Grey’s own house, where Claire had set up her clinic. No sooner had Ian shut the door behind them then Claire herself flew into the room, pulling Grey in for a cautious embrace with one arm flung around his neck. “John! Oh, thank God." She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Took you long enough! Will they come for him?" She asked Jamie, pulling away from Grey to examine his wounded wrists.

"Nay, I dinna think so. We'll keep watch anyway, but I'm fairly certain that the, ah… exchange that we made will be sufficient." Jamie kissed the top of Claire's unruly curls. "What do ye need to mend him?"

Now that the danger was past, pain and fatigue overtook John all at once and he swayed on his feet, groaning. "Christ." His tongue felt thick in his mouth, his vision going fuzzy around the edges.

Claire said something in a commanding tone, sounding underwater and far away, as Grey's legs buckled. Willie called out to him. One strong arm came around John's back, another sweeping under his knees, scooping him up before he collapsed altogether. 

"I've got ye, _mo leannan._ " Jamie held him cradled against his chest. His arms might have been the earth itself for their steadiness. Then it was a soft mattress and pillows beneath Grey, and Jamie’s hand behind his head, dribbling cool, honeyed water into his mouth. The cold steel of a blade between his arms. Pressure where the ropes were. His pain was gone, faded into the miserable background. The last thing he saw before everything went black was Jamie’s blue eyes, wide with concern, inches from Grey’s face.

* * *

Claire had sprung into action the instant that John began to wobble, taking charge, barking orders, conscripting Willie and Ian as her assistants. Ian had at least grown accustomed to the role over the years and needed little direction. Willie had hesitated at first, lurching instead toward John’s side out of reflex. But Jamie had given him a stern look. “Do as she says, lad.” And that had been that. 

Jamie sat on the bed next to Grey, one arm around him, running his fingers through John’s hair as he dozed. Claire had cut the ropes free, peeling them carefully away from the open wounds they’d left on John’s wrists, so far beyond rope burn. They had to cut off John's coat and waistcoat to avoid further injury to his wrists, and Jamie helped to support him while Claire undressed John to his shirt.

Once Grey was as comfortable as they could make him, she cleaned out the bits of dirt and hemp fiber and applied some sort of poultice. She’d said what it was as she gingerly slathered it on John’s raw and ripped skin, but Jamie hadn’t heard it. And it didn’t matter to him. There was no one else on earth that Jamie would have trusted to tend to John.

Willie hovered in the doorway, on alert lest Ian—who stood guard in the parlor—should call for him. The lad took orders well, that was certain, and he had a level head in a crisis. He stifled a yawn with the back of one hand and leaned against the door frame. 

“Sassenach, do ye need Willie for anything more?” Jamie asked quietly.

Not looking up from her task of bandaging John’s second wrist, she shook her head. “No, no. Willie, dear, you should try to sleep. He’ll be quite alright. Just a touch of exhaustion, perhaps some low blood sugar. Your papa will be up and about by suppertime tomorrow, I expect.” 

“It’s alright, _mo mhac_ ,” Jamie said. “Ian will guard the house and I and your ma will watch over John.”

Willie hesitated, looked about to protest, and then nodded reluctantly. “Alright. But you’ll call for me if you need me? Or if… anything changes?”

“Of course,” Jamie said. “Good night.” The door clicked shut behind Willie.

“There,” Claire said, laying Grey’s newly bandaged hand carefully across his chest. “Whenever he’s awake enough, he needs to drink more of the honey water. Perhaps in a few hours he’ll be able to sip some bone broth.” She reached over John’s prone form and wrapped her fingers around Jamie’s forearm, giving him a smile that he found both reassuring and warm. “Why don’t you go get some sleep as well. I’ll stay with him until you wake up.”

Jamie shook his head. The thought of leaving the room, even with Claire still in it, filled Jamie with a twisting fear in his guts. He couldn’t have explained it if she’d asked him, but he found himself unable to shake the feeling that if he looked away, if he stopped touching him, John would be gone again. “Nay, I willna be able to close my eyes until I see him well again.”

Claire studied his face, then nodded at last. “Then I’ll go check on Ian and Willie, see if they’re hungry. Can I get you anything?”

“Nay, Sassenach. But thank ye.”

And then Jamie was alone with John. He pressed his lips to John’s temple, inhaling the scent of him. Under the sweat and jail grime, when Jamie buried his nose in his hair, he inhaled the comforting fragrance of _John_. And though Claire would have understood it, wouldn’t have judged him for it, he finally let fall the single hot tear that had burnt his eyes since Claire had declared him safe. A cask of love and worry and relief came out in that single drop, which fell on Grey’s cheek.

“Jamie?” John’s voice was thready and drowsy, but coherent.

“Aye, _mo leannan_ , I’m here. Drink a bit of this.” Jamie held a cup to John’s lips and helped him tip it back, wiping his chin of the few drops that spilled.

“You lied to me,” Grey croaked.

“What. I didna—”

“You said you would do something incredibly stupid to get me out of that jail.” John allowed Jamie to dribble more honey water into his mouth.

“Ye are out of jail, John. Ye’re home, with me. And with Claire and our lad. Where ye belong.” Fear froze Jamie’s heart. Christ, what if John had gone delirious? What if he was fevered already? Swallowing down his worry lest it show, Jamie laid his palm to John’s forehead, pressed the back of his fingers against his cheek. Not hot, not clammy. He should call for Claire.

John accepted another sip of the water, one corner of his mouth tipping up into a wry smile. “What you did was actually rather clever. But you promised me incredibly stupid, Jamie Fraser, and you did not deliver.”

Jamie laughed, relieved and unable to think of anything else to do or say to that. “Aye, I did. I’m sorry to have let ye down.”

“Well, you also promised to be terribly reckless. And _that_ you did manage.” John opened one eye and peered up at Jamie. “Though I suppose kissing me in front of that sacrificial lamb could qualify as incredibly stupid. But I’m glad you did that too.”

John’s lips tasted like diluted honey, and when Jamie pulled away, John's eyes stayed closed. “Would you touch me, Jamie? Please. I… need to feel you, need to know that I’m really home.”

Jamie worked his hand under the quilt, skimmed down John’s chest and stomach, cupped his soft prick with a gentle squeeze. “Is this what ye wanted?”

“Hmm, yes.” Grey’s fingers twitched but he kept his wounded hands still. His eyes fluttered open and met Jamie’s, focused and clear, full of need and trust. John’s breathing came faster as he coaxed him to life, his cock growing stiff in Jamie’s hand as he stroked him. Just the way John liked it, confident and firm. Grey hummed and sighed, relaxing back into the pillows. 

Jamie pressed a kiss to John’s lips and pulled the quilt back, rucking up John’s shirt to skim his fingers over his chest and stomach. “Ye’re safe.” He kissed John’s chest. “Ye’re home.” Settling himself between Grey’s legs, Jamie kissed his inner thigh. “Ye’re in our bed.” He mouthed up the length of John’s cock, giving just the head a brief suck, making John gasp and arch up to his touch. “And I am caring for ye.” Jamie took him into his mouth until John’s cock touched the back of his throat.

“Christ, Jamie,” John said, breathless. One hand rested on Jamie’s head, fingers burrowing into his hair. Jamie loved the feel of John’s prick, hard and heavy and leaking in his mouth. Loved to reduce him to breathless moans and gasping incoherence. There was no rush, so he suckled him gently, moving his tongue along the underside, enjoying himself as much as John was. Jamie hummed and dug his fingers into the flesh of John’s thigh, drawing a shudder and a sleepy, desperate whine from him.

“You had better be minding those bandages,” Claire said, closing the door behind her and crossing to the bed. “You don’t want your wounds to start bleeding again.” The mattress dipped as she sat next to Grey. 

Without breaking his own rhythm, Jamie looked up to see Claire pull John into an embrace and kiss him on the mouth. There was always less passion between Claire and John than between Jamie and either of them, but no less love or affection. 

Pulling up John’s shirt, Claire drew her nails lightly over John’s bare chest, and bent to lick and suck his nipple.

John’s eyes rolled heavenward. “Sweet Jesus,” he gasped, chest heaving. It was a damned erotic vision, his cock hard and twitching in Jamie’s mouth and strong thighs trembling under his hands. If Jamie hadn’t been so focused caring for John he would have taken himself in hand. But he ignored his own cockstand; time enough for that later. 

John’s fingers tightened in his hair. “God, yes, that’s it exactly.Claire, oh, _Jamie!_ ” he cried, spilling down Jamie’s throat.

Jamie swallowed his seed, licked him clean, kissed his thighs, hips, stomach, mouth. 

Claire tugged his shirt back into place and yanked the quilt over John and smoothed it down, tucking him in again. “There we are,” she said in that soothing voice she used when the scolding and doctoring was over. She pressed sweet kisses to Grey’s cheek. “You should sleep well now, yes? Here, drink some of this.” She held the cup of honeyed water to his lips and he drank deeply, letting her kiss away the drops from his lips, wiping his chin with a handkerchief. “How do you feel? Do you need something for the pain?”

Shaking his head, Grey let out a long sigh and settled himself against the pillows. “No, my dear. Thank you.” He looked from Claire to Jamie. “The both of you. It is… good to be home.”

“Rest easy, now. I’ll watch over ye.” Jamie wrapped his arms around John and let him rest his head on Jamie’s chest as he held him close.

“Just…” John moved an arm, as if to grab hold of Jamie, but he winced and laid it back down on top of the quilt, nuzzling against Jamie’s chest. “Just hold me. Please.”

His deep breaths were warm through Jamie’s shirt, and Jamie tightened his grip on John’s shoulder. “Aye, _mo leannan._ I’ve got ye,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Claire undressed to her chemise and slid carefully into the bed on the other side of Grey, one arm wrapped around his middle beneath the quilt, his bandaged hands undisturbed atop her forearm. “We’ve got you, John.”

Jamie didn’t sleep at all through the wee hours of the morning. He couldn’t bear to take his eyes off John, couldn’t let go of him. Claire had fallen into a light sleep, and Jamie drifted, alert but meditative, on the sound of their even breathing. His two loves, safe and whole and under his protection once again.

In a few hours, the sun had climbed high enough to awaken John and Claire. After a thorough examination of what Claire referred to as John’s “vitals,” she declared the patient well enough to sip bone broth, but forbade him to use his hands. 

Jamie sat close to Grey on the bed, gently tipping the mug of broth at John’s lips, when Fergus came in with a copy of the morning edition of _L’Onion_. “Good morning, Milord,” he said, offering the front page to Jamie. “And Milady, Lord John.” Fergus smiled at them both before turning serious eyes back to Jamie. “Was this what you had in mind?”

Jamie handed the cup to Claire, who sat on the bed on John’s other side and took over feeding John, giving Grey a stern look when he tried to take the soup from her. 

Fishing his spectacles out of his sporran, he perched the small frames on his nose and examined the paper. The front page bore the headline: CONTINENTAL CAPTAIN CONFESSES TO ATROCITIES 

“ _Oui, mon fils,_ ” Jamie said, smiling at Fergus and bursting with pride. “Excellent.”

The entire front page was a verbatim copy of the same confession that Captain Greenlee had penned—albeit under durres—the night before. Claire and John read over Jamie’s shoulder. Grey breathed a relieved sigh. “Well, threatening Richardson privately didn’t work before. We can only hope publicly exposing him will.” He took another sip of broth when Claire held it to his lips. “At the very least, he’ll resort to a straightforward assault rather than all this tedious subterfuge.”

“Aye,” Jamie said with a fierce grin. “If he does, then we can just shoot him.”

* * *

`CONTINENTAL CAPTAIN CONFESSES TO ATROCITIES `

``

`I, RONALD GREENLEE, CAPTAIN OF THE CONTINENTAL ARMY, UNDER THE COMMAND OF COLONEL EZEKIAL RICHARDSON, DO SWEAR AND CONFESS TO THE WILLING AND PREMEDITATED MURDER OF VIRGIL MOSLEY, SERGENT OF THE CONTINENTAL ARMY, ON THE EVENING OF THE 28TH OF JUNE. I FURTHER DECLARE THAT MY ACTIONS WERE UNDER THE UNLAWFUL ORDERS OF MY COMMANDING OFFICER, COLONEL EZEKIAL RICHARDSON, WHO SOUGHT VENGEANCE OF A PERSONAL NATURE AGAINST A PRIVATE CITIZEN OF THE CITY OF PHILADELPHIA. AND IN THE COURSE OF THAT VENGEANCE BORE FALSE WITNESS AGAINST SAID CITIZEN, SUFFICIENT TO RESULT IN HIS SENTENCING TO DEATH BY HANGING. `

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`I WAS AWARE THAT COLONEL RICHARDSON’S ACTIONS WERE OUTSIDE OF THE RULES OF HONORABLE MILITARY ENGAGEMENT AND I NEVERTHELESS REMAINED A WILLING AND COMPLICIT PARTY IN THE MURDER OF SERGEAT MOSLEY AND THE ATTEMPTED MURDER OF THE PRIVATE CITIZEN, WHOM I HAVE CHOSEN NOT TO NAME IN ORDER TO PROTECT HIS IDENTITY AND THAT OF HIS RELATIONS.`

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`I SWEAR TO THE TRUTH OF THE ABOVE STATEMENTS AND DO ISSUE THIS DOCUMENT AS A DUE CONFESSION THAT IS SIGNED BY MY OWN HAND ON THE 2ND OF JULY, 1778.`

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`RONALD GREENLEE`


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